I am, to my father's dismay, more like the passive women in my family than the men. The women form a long chain of paper dolls, and I am half a doll at that. But I am my father's only child-his miracle one. When I think about it, he was more of an embarrassment to la familia than I ever was. Hell, I saved his reputation. Impotent, they would whisper at fiestas. Shake their heads and say, Chingao, what a waste. I get the same reaction from the girls. They see my sculpted body, the Spaniard complexion-you know the one, beetle-black hair against ivory white skin, the kind Don Juan must have had, and the girls go ga-ga. Girls and their locuras… I see them eye me discreetly and sometimes not so discreetly.
Tonight, as I saunter past the Crockett Hotel, the girls gaze in astonishment. They've spied the huge bulge my black leather pants try to contain. El viejo used to show me his chorizo in the bano and say, "Ya ves, mi'jo, when you grow up, this is what you can thank your papi for. It's gonna drive the viejas crazy." Gra-cias, Papi, because you were right, a man is nothing without a big dick, especially in jotoland.
But why think about that culero now? Maybe because my balls are shriveling from this chilly breeze while I wait to dance my buns to warmth inside the Bonham. Old historical Bonham, the only decent thing about San Anton' on Saturday nights. How many nights did I freeze my ass off that Thanksgiving el viejo kicked me out?
At least three, before my great tia Tita took me in like her own son. I grew up hearing la familia whisper about her, saying she would never get married and have kids because she was "one of them." A tortillera. Back then I didn't understand what eating tortillas had to do with her not getting married. My mom ate tortillas and she married my dad. It seemed the whole fucking town of San Anton ' ate tortillas, even the gringos. It wasn't until Tia Tita showed me albums of all of her "comadres" that I got the picture.
Almost twenty years ago, and I still remember el ataque de corazon my parents had when it was my turn at the table to be thankful and I said, "I thank Jesucristo for letting me know so early on in my life that I think men are groovy." Thinking it was a joke, Abuelo Rufus laughed aloud. Almost choked on the turkey leg he had shoved in his mouth. But when I looked at our neighbor Jim Stonewall, a closeted fag, and said, "Tell them, babe"-a battle bigger than the pinche Alamo transpired. And just like back then, Mexicans were fighting Mexicans, and the pobre gringo got pulverized.
Ten more vatos to go and I'm inside. I hate it when the line gets stalled; you'd think they could card the jailbait a little faster. The music is already pumping so loud I can hear my dreamy Ricky blasting through the speakers. Tasty. N'ombre, I was into him when he was just a Menudo boy. And even now that his star has waned, I'm still his biggest fan. You see Junior, you can be loyal to a man. He's just gotta look like Ricky or George.
Not like the average joto I see standing out here. Carajo, I don't see anything worth a stroke. Just the regular faces. I think every guy in this line has already given me a blowjob. That's the daddy's girl in me. I still let the men do the picking-up. But it doesn't mean I'm a bottom. And that is definitely the macho in me.
Regardless of what el viejo said about me back then-that I'm a long-haired sissy joto who will never be a man or his hijo 'cause you like to take it up the ass like a pinche vieja!-I've discovered it's really not my style. It's like no one ever tells you that if you take it up the ass you can't really enjoy it the first few times. How? The whole fucking time it feels like you're gonna crap. That grosses me out. They can blow me, give me a handjob and I'll gladly fuck or suck them, but those are my boundaries. I don't think it makes me less of a joto.
The only one who ever did me doggie style was Orlando, and that's just because the puto was stronger than me. If the struggle hadn't turned me on so much, I would've called it rape. After Orlando, I've always made sure to only let smaller putos pick me up. Too many psychos out there.
Speaking of locos, ay, mi virgencita, I don't believe my eyes, pinche Gerald is here. Que apropos, here I am going down memory lane and the only cabron I let treat me like his perra is here. At least, he's at the end of the line. Maybe I can avoid him. Damn. I thought he moved to Irving five years ago when he started dating that Dallas Cowboy player. He must be here visiting his sister Gweena.
That must be his boyfriend hanging on him like a sweaty workout towel. Gerald always enjoyed being worshiped. I wish I could say he looks like shit, but he doesn't. For a brother, his style doesn't change much though. Black slacks and a white tank top to show off his Olympian chest and arms. Delicious, but my worst relationship. What did I expect from a gym rat? I mean, I work out, but chingao, I got a life, too.
Now he's looking arrow-straight at me. I don't think he recognizes you, Junior. How could he? I was in my blond ambition stage when we dated. He never saw my natural look, well, except for my nest where the pajarito sleeps. C'mon Gerald, get a good look you pinche puto, because your slutty hands will never touch me again. Look at him grinning, what a flirt, always on the hunt. He's definitely got that guy dick-whipped.
Hello, honey, are you going to give me the regular special? C'mon, give me the smile, papi chulo. Stamp my hand. In I go for free and in return a nice squeeze to the ass to keep him caliente the rest of the night. Since Edward started manning the door, I can't remember the last time I paid to come in.
Ay, music throbbing, I can barely hear my thoughts. This is nice. A packed house and it's not even eleven yet. I love the holiday crowds: out-of-towners and their fresh faces. I should write a book about playing the game at clubs.
First thing any professional clubber does is cruise the entire scene as soon as he enters. Even if he's a drinker, the cerveza can wait once you get an idea of what kind of house it is. Actually, I rarely ever buy my own drinks, so I don't even worry about stopping at the bar. Tonight it's a rather eclectic crowd. I should have no problem getting laid.
Let's see, we got the young freaks who wear nothing but Hilfiger, Nike, and Adidas in the video hip-hop room. This is usually where I run into my ex-students. I used to get embarrassed and terrified the first few years this happened. "Coach Rodriguez? What are you doing here?" No, I should be asking you that, quarterback Joe, lineman Johnny, or running back Ricardo. Tough baby jotos. I let them squirm with vergiienza and then say, "Your mama asked me to find your joto butt and take you home." Their mouths opening with fear, just wide enough to take my cock, I think. And then I laugh my ass off and grab their balls.
And the truth is, if they are over twenty-one, I usually do take them home, or at least to my car. Any teacher who says they've never been turned on by a student is a liar. But with the new law San Anton' passed about teachers and students involved in sexual relations, I'm going to have to start checking their I.D.s. Make sure it's been at least seven years since I last spanked them.
It's not like I think teachers should be sleeping with their students, especially, if a kid can come back up until the age of twenty-one and sue your culo. Just gotta be more careful. Gotta be cool in the young face of temptation. I feel sorriest for the straight teachers. Some of those young girls are serious putitas. If Coach Hernandez isn't careful with the third-year flunky, Melissa Gallegos, he's going to have some major problemas down the road. Everyone says she keeps flunking eighth grade to stay in his P.E. class. Girl is way past the training bra stage. But there you have her, jumping jacks in the front row, where Hernandez can see her chichis jiggle like Jell-O.
Luckily, it takes my boys longer to figure out their sexuality. They're too busy trying to get pubescent panocha to prove their studliness. They overlook the fact that they're really in love with their own chorizos. Once they get past the societal bullshit, they realize a gay man's life is ideal. Dick whenever, from whoever, no questions asked. Well, at least that was the case in my early days; now everyone's freaked out about la pinche SIDA. But like I say, I have no problem with a complete stranger sucking my dick.
Like, who's that guy in the pool room? Now see, the pool room is where your older guys hang out. Men who could be as old as my father. My father probably looks like this hombre here. Good-looking tejano type with a small beer belly over his Wranglers. Yep, my dad would be wearing his ass-kicking boots, too, and, of course, the Stetson. But my father never smoked like this guy, my mama hated it. Made her asthma worse. And if this vato is the one who put Gloria Gaynor in the jukebox, he's definitely not el viejo. Dad was Texas Tornadoes day in and day out. Con-junto or nothin'. Ay, if there's nothing interesting on the main dance floor, I will definitely come back here, because the way this papasote is looking at me, he wants to burn his mouth with my chile.
Well, Junior, look who finally got in. Princess Gerald and his frog. I hope they stay at the side bar. I don't want to deal with diva shit tonight. And there's Randy, or is it Rudy? I don't remember, but he does have the cutest asshole, all salmon pink and precious. I'll just nod at fish-ass. I like to be polite. Just because I do a guy doesn't mean I have to be a cabron and not acknowledge him. Just hope he doesn't follow me, because I'm not feeling like Jewish tonight.
Maybe it's all the reminiscing, but what you need, Junior, is an all-out Hispanic faggot with a Catholic complex. The kind that is always praying because he feels guilty about everything, so it's natural for him to be on his knees. Those are the men who usually indulge themselves with my body. Maybe it's all of those years of taking Christ in their mouths.
And now we get to the end of our cruise and what do we have on the main floor? Some biker boys, some pain-in-the-ass queens, a decent mix of lesbians, a couple of corporate types, lots of beefcake and, oh my-Junior, your eyes have landed on paradise. If Emilio Navaira ever had a twin brother, that is him over in the corner. He's everything that was back in the pool room only twenty years younger. And I am of the Hollywood mindset: younger is definitely sexier. I've never seen this one. He must be visiting from Laredo; he looks bien bordertown.
Okay, Junior, time to move to the second and most essential clubbing step. Parking. I'll just take my fine ass to the bar where my cowboy is stationed and make myself look available. Did someone just grab my ass? Oh no-the pink princess is shouting in my ear.
Hey, Zorro, you got that nifty sword of yours handy?
I'll just smile and pretend I can't hear him. Gotta keep dancing my way to Emilio.
It's Randy! I forgive you if you forgot my name, we didn't exactly do much talkin' last Saturday!
Just keep moving, Junior. No, I can't be an asshole. Fuck my Catholic upbringing! You're looking good, Randy, but I came here with someone! So, are you alone again? Shit, he didn't hear me. Okay, you've been nice enough, Junior, Emilio is going to get away if you don't drop this mosca. Oh, thank God, the YMCA song. I'll run away when he makes the em. Even better, let's bump hips with these bikers and pray one of them takes an interest in fish-ass. Chingao, I hope Emilio isn't watching all of this; I don't want him to think I'm cheap. Yet. Bingo, there go Randy and Mr. Harley Davidson himself. Cupid should pay me a commission.
I can't believe I've been standing here for over three minutes and my Emilio hasn't even made a move. I've already thrown him the eye, step number three. I throw it any harder, I'll be left with two empty sockets. Chingao, maybe he's hitched. Let me see if he's looking at anyone in particular on the dance floor. Nadie. So what's wrong, papasito? He may not be interested-nah, impossible. Dio, don't tell me I'm dealing with the shy type. Maybe he's straight and this is his first night out. Oh, well, Junior, you can move on. Mexican Marlboro Man is waiting in the pool room. But this Emilio is extremely cute. I'm getting a hard-on just looking at him. No mustache to tickle your cock, an authentic baby face. Ah, fuck it-be a man and make the first move, Junior.
"Hey, what are you drinking? Can I buy you another one?" Uh-oh, he looks nervous, maybe he is here with someone. Maybe he can't hear me through the Gloria Estefan dance mix. Wait, is that a smile? And he's holding up his Lone Star. Aaajuuua! I'm at the bar.
"Hey, Javier, will you get me a Lone Star and a Corona?"
"Oh my God, you're going to, like, actually buy someone a drink?"
"I guess you don't want a tip?"
"I'm just kidding, her royal highness. Here you go. And by the way, I love the eye makeup."
"It's just eyeliner."
"Oh, but it's so you."
I hand my soon-to-be loverboy his beer and sit on the stool next to him. Oh, he's so kissable. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but my vibe says he's a maniac in bed. It's like mama used to say, Watch out for the quiet ones, mi'jo, they don't talk 'cause they've got the most to hide.
Nice nails. Trim and clean, says a lot about a man. I wonder what he does for a living? I'll ask him later, maybe between sessions. Best thing about picking someone up at a club, no need to talk. Oh, look at him chug that beer. Ay, Junior, this one definitely swallows. Just thinking about his mouth around my cock is working me up. That's what I need to do, just get him up and off that stool so I can take a peak at his package. Those jeans are tight enough to give me a sneak preview. Well, I've taken the lead so far, no sense turning femme now.
Jesus, Junior, if Gerald could see the butch in you now. Don't let go of Emilio's hand until you're bumping and grinding to the groove. Soft hands. Gracias a la virgencita I wasn't born during that waltz era. How the hell would you get close enough to a man's body and figure out if he's really into you? Really. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. My Emilio isn't too tall. I'd say about five feet eight and since he's wearing boots, maybe that makes him only a five-six or five-seven at best. Who cares, the boy has got some serious Latin rhythm going on. And from what I can tell in these flashing pink and blue lights, he makes up for size in other areas.
And he's not that shy. He's letting me rub against him like I'm cloth-shining his boots. If he's not careful with that sexy look of his, it's going to turn into a spit shine pretty quick. Ay, virgencita, are those his hands around my ass? Junior, I think he likes you. This has got to be the best part about dancing to techno, it's sex with your clothes on. And the way he's letting me buck against his ass, carajo, I gotta get him into a bathroom pronto. "Do you want to go to the bathroom?"
Oh, my God. I feel like such a dick. Did he just shake his head and reject me? No one has ever told me no. Who the fuck does Emilio think he is? What is he pulling out of his pocket? Keys. Keys? Keys! Oh, yeah, cowboy, let's go.
The back of his van. I thought he'd be driving a Chevy pickup, but he's got a Dodge van from the early eighties. Tinted windows, of course. And a bumper sticker that reads AUSTIN in rainbow colors, no wonder I haven't seen him at the Bonham. I gotta go to the capital more often. Doors open-and I thought I had seen everything, but this shit is amazing. There's so much leather in here we could piece together a cow. He nudges me inside. It's just too wicked to stop now.
The doors close behind us. I can barely see the club through the windows. He parked his van too far away for us to hear the music. Cold. Our breath is still coming out in clouds, until he puts his mouth to mine. It's obvious both of us are naturals. Sluts, that is. His tongue and mine wrestle the way our bodies are gonna. Oops, his hat just fell off. I put one hand against the back of his head-ooh very soft hair-and the other on his ass-very tough-and suck-suck his beery breath. Curl my fingers around his biceps while he pushes me onto his mattress. I move my hand to touch his dick-his pelvis pulls back. I guess he wants to be in control. Short man syndrome? He's chulo enough to have me play along.
I love the way he respects silence. No need for having to think of something sexy or sweet to say on the spot. It always comes out sounding so corny, or I feel like shit because I know I'm lying to the guy. I dated this writer from Colombia once and he wouldn't let me touch his dick unless I came up with a metaphor. That didn't last long. What would I tell Emilio if he started talking? If he'll be my wetback, I'll be his border patrol? He starts unbuttoning my shirt, I close my eyes and listen to the stream of traffic rushing on the 1-35 nearby. I place my hands behind my head so he can strip search me.
Smooth tongue works down my chest like he's licking an envelope. Then it lingers at the edge of my pants like a truant kid walking back and forth along the school fence waiting for his chance to jump it. There he goes. Emilio doesn't unzip me though. He's play-biting my dick and it likes him. I must be eight inches now. I wonder if he didn't let me touch him because he's smaller than me. I swear, machos can be so sensitive about those things.
Ay, yes, that's it, Emilio, unzip me and kiss it with those fideo-thin lips. He's really good at this. No teeth. Just his tongue massaging my dick in warm circles. A little moth dancing around my pole. My stomach muscles are getting tighter, gotta start holding back the juice. Ay, it's that good kind of hurt. The kind that makes the coming tingle in my tummy. Chingao, I can't wait to reciprocate the favor, whatever size he is. Wait, why did he stop?
Carajo, this is too much. He's dangling a pair of handcuffs. But what the fuck? Are you going to go to your grave without the experience of at least one guy tying you up? Lose control every now and then, or why be fucking gay? And I don't know what it is about this vato, but I feel like I can trust him. Like he's got something nurturing about him. Or maybe it's just my taut chorizo doing the feeling and thinking for me. I nod my head, sit up and hold out my hands. I am an offering. He grabs a piece of black cloth hanging from the window and starts-blindfolding me? Well, they do call me Zorro. Click-click-click goes the first handcuff around my wrist. Freezing metal teeth. Emilio moves quickly behind me and kisses the back of my neck. Ah, chingao, how did he know that was my weak spot? I'm Jack Frost in a microwave. Hold on! No fucking fair! How did he do that?
"Hey, chulo, hold on. I don't mind being handcuffed, but not from behind."
Ah, shit, Junior. You better pray this guy isn't a homophobic killer. Dumb ass, of course he was going to handcuff you from behind. Vulnerable. Breathe. Just relax. This is part of the juego. See, your dick is still into him. All part of the fun. What's life without a little danger? Shut up idiota, you're a joto, you're always in danger. Now what is he doing? I could resist. Ah, fuck it. Whatever happens happens. A gag? Okay, this is beyond cliche. All he needs to do now is throw me on my stomach and-there he goes. How did I know that was coming? All right, Emilio, now I'm all yours. What are you going to do, kick my culo for being such a trusting faggot? Ah-he kisses my neck again. His touch is all gentle. I guess he feels he can be nice again, now that he's utterly in control. Hands massage my back. God, his hands are so silky. This ain't too bad, I should've tried this sooner. Okay, Emilio knows he's got me hot and bothered, I'm rubbing myself so hard against his mattress, he's got to know I want to be inside his mouth again.
Ay, yes, he's a mind reader. We are so connected. That's it, baby, take my pants off. I'll lift my ass up in the air so you can unzip me. He's having problems. See Emilio, if we had just done this the old-fashioned way I could've helped you with my chaps. Now what? Where is he going? He can't leave me like this. What's he opening? A door? No, I would have felt a chill or something. Glove compartment? He's back but what's he trying to do to my leg? Tie it? No way, man. Now I'm going to make him earn his little masochist thrill. Where is the motherfucker? Just keep kicking in the air, Junior, you're bound to give him a good chingazo. Hey, where the fuck is the parking attendant when you need him? Carajo, I'm dealing with a real vaquero here, he's sitting on my knees and tying my ankles to who knows what. All right, Emilio, you win. I'm splayed like the fingers of the peace sign. Peace, brother, ever heard of that?
Hey! Did he just cut my pants? Cabron, these cost me three hundred dollars! Hold on. Is he using a knife? Jesucristo, get me alive out of this one and I'll-I'll-Oh, wait a second, false alarm. That's more like it, Emilio. He knows he's got me scared shitless, so he's kissing my ass-literally.
Ssshhh! Another deep kiss between my butt cheeks. Ssshhh- ssshhh-yeah, easy for you to say, Emilio. I wonder how turned on he is by all of this? Not that I'm one to talk, my chorizo gets any harder I'm going to bruise my stomach. I hear a popping sound. Now what is he grabbing? A zipper. Well, I know how I'm getting it tonight, that's no surprise. A jangle, and it ain't fucking Santa. Must be some belts. I hope he doesn't spank the shit out of me. I have to work Monday. He's squeezing a bottle. Ah well, at least we know he's considerate. He's rubbing plenty of cold lube around my asshole. It's gotta be that brand called WET, rub it and it gets hotter, 'cause that's what I'm feeling.
See, Junior, he's definitely not a cabron. He could just ram it inside of you. But he's actually being very sensitive about his entry. I knew I could trust him. Ay, he's coming inside of me inch by inch. I don't know what he was worried about, he's got a hell of a package. I think I've met my match. His legs are starting to sweat between mine. He grabs on to my shoulders and I can feel every thrust vibrate inside of me. I extend my fingers and they reach the edge of his pubic hair. It's the softest pubic hair I've ever touched, like a newborn's head.
Ay virgencita, there's nothing like a tejano. He rides like a thousand cowboys are in his veins. C'mon Emilio, baby, take me on your Chisholm Trail. God, I'll be your saddle any day after tonight. What was I scared of? Why does this guy feel so fucking good from behind? There he goes, coming so fast his tiny shrieks sound like an eagle or a boiling teapot. And me, I'm coming right along. Hold on, Emilio. Hear the hooves beating along the path? Or maybe that's just my handcuffs scraping against each other. Who cares-all I know is that we're both riding into that fucking sunset. He bellows and all I see is tiny lights. The blackness gives way to red, orange and then yellow spots. The pinche sol envelops us. I feel its warm rays all over my body-virgencita, I think I'm in love.
I wish he would at least take off my gag, my nose pressed upon this mattress makes it difficult to breathe. He's fallen on top of me and I can smell his sweat. Like cumin. My stomach is all wet from my juice, but that's a small due to pay for the pleasure. Hold on. I just realized something. He's still inside of me. Hard. How is that possible? Chingao, Junior, have you really met your dream man? Now that's he's removing the gag with his teeth, maybe you should at least find out his name. We can't keep calling him Emilio just because he looks like your favorite tejano singer.
"So, what's your name, loverboy?" He cuts the rope off of my legs.
What? Martha Serrano. Off with the blindfold. If I weren't such a macho, maybe I'd cry. But all I can do is laugh like an idiot. My dream man is sitting in front of me Indian-style, her hot pink strap-on dildo pointing to the gods. Jesus.
Adelina Anthony is an interdisciplinary Xicana lesbiana artist-a writer/actor/director/cultural activist. She is cofounder and artistic director of Los Angeles ' MACHA Theatre Company, which produces works by lesbians of color. Her op-eds are published by the Progressive Media Project; her poetry has been published in Texas and Germany; and her short stories appear in Texas Short Stories II, Nerve, and Pillow Tal\ III.
"Cowboy," © 2000 by Adelina Anthony, first appeared in Nerve (Nerve Publishing LLC, 2000);
www.nerve.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.